


Solitary

by Several_Squirrels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s12e09 First Blood, Flashbacks, Gen, Hell Flashbacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 20:26:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14292783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Several_Squirrels/pseuds/Several_Squirrels
Summary: "Sam could feel his mind being pulled back in, back down into those memories he kept carefully under lock and key, in a cage in the furthest reaches of his mind. He had constructed his own way of keeping them from surfacing after the wall had collapsed, but it wasn’t foolproof. Sometimes it just… shattered. Filling the rest of his mind with shrapnel made of pain and fire and blood."I was re-watching First Blood, where Sam and Dean are arrested for trying to kill the president (He was possessed by the Devil, but try explaining that to the authorities.) and I was wondering about how Sam was feeling during their stay. And back when he was hallucinating, and Lucifer comments that the locked ward is just like the cage, I don't know. It was just a thought. I've always wanted to delve a little deeper into Sam's PTSD (Which he clearly has, look up the criteria. I mean. Poor guy.), I'll probably write more about it later but this just happened. Enjoy.





	Solitary

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how well I did on this... but here ya go.

The only time Sam Winchester broke his predictable, silent routine during his six-week long stay in the maximum security prison (The one that didn’t technically exist, according to the government.) was on a Wednesday evening, about one and a half weeks in.

Sam had been to Hell. He had been tortured by the Devil himself, heck, he and his brother took what ‘normal people’ would consider torture everyday without batting an eye. Torture was an occupational hazard, and when they weren’t the ones dishing it out to whatever scumbag had the information they needed, they were on the receiving end. Like they were now. Locked away in windowless, concrete cells eating two meals a day and experiencing about as little human contact as possible. The only way Sam knew his brother was still alive was because their captors needed him to be.  
And that was it, he would eat, exercise, use the toilet, eat again, and sleep. That was the only good thing about this place. He was getting the most sleep he had gotten in a very long time, which wasn’t saying much, he would still wake up at least twice every night (Or whatever time of day passed for night, it wasn’t like there was any way to mark the time besides meals.), covered in a cold sweat, pushing memories of hell and a life that wasn’t much better into the back of his head. It wasn’t that he was sleeping well, it was just that there wasn’t much else to do.  
It was a day like any other, exactly like all the others in fact, and Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall and holding a half empty cup of water left over after his meal. He wasn’t sure what had happened, maybe it was the coolness seeping into his right hand as it clutched the cup loosely, or maybe it was just his brain deciding it had had enough, but suddenly something inside of him snapped. The walls, which had always seem impersonal and confining, now seemed to be closing in on him, and they seemed less concrete and more metal. The carefully regulated temperature suddenly plummeted, and Sam felt goosebumps prickling across his skin. The cup fell from his shivering fingers, hitting the floor with a resounding clank, unnoticed by Sam. It was noticed by the guard however, who arrived just in time to see Sam’s tall frame slide from the bed, dropping to his knees in the shallow puddle that was now soaking into both the floor and his pants.  
Sam could feel his mind being pulled back in, back down into those memories he kept carefully under lock and key, in a cage in the furthest reaches of his mind. He had constructed his own way of keeping them from surfacing after the wall had collapsed, but it wasn’t foolproof. Sometimes it just… shattered. Filling the rest of his mind with shrapnel made of pain and fire and blood. Dean had never seen it happen, Cas once, and for weeks after he had acted like he was walking on eggshells around the younger Winchester, no doubt still beating himself up over tearing down the wall in the first place. Sam didn’t blame him for that. Not really. He just couldn’t hold onto any hard feelings towards one of the only friends he still had, he didn’t have anymore room to waste on hard feelings.  
He was back in the cage now. It didn’t take long to sink back in once it started, he had spent so much time there it was more familiar than any home he’d ever had, and Lucifer, well, Lucifer probably knew him much better than Dean ever would. He didn’t like to admit it, but it was true. He could see it in times like these, when his mind flawlessly transformed his surroundings into the cage that had held his broken soul for decades. The blood stained floor, the rusted, sharp bars, the flames. The ice. Chains. Knives. And Lucifer.  
Lucifer. The Devil on his shoulder. The Devil in him. His celestial mirror. Grinning down at him with blood spattered teeth, one hand softly stroking his cheek and the other raking through his guts. Sam screamed, screamed till his voice gave out and it was just horse muttering, pleading, as tears streamed from his eyes.  
The guard outside his cell had run off as soon as the usually stoic, silent prisoner collapsed with a chillingly blank look in his eyes. As he hurried back with his superiors they could hear the screams, god they were awful, and even Sanchez, the man who truly wanted to see the life drained from the eyes of the Winchester brothers, shivered at the sound.  
They reached the door in record time, and it was opened to reveal Sam Winchester, murderer and terrorist, convulsing on the floor in a puddle of water and his own tears, begging for some unseen force to stop, please just stop, get away from me.  
Nobody really knew what to do. It was an unprecedented situation, terrorists weren’t supposed to have this kind of breakdown.  
Camp had experience, he recognized this sort of behavior. You don’t become such a skilled and trusted anti-terrorism agent without a little experience on the front. It may have been a while, but he recognized PTSD when he saw it. Especially such an extreme case. Sanchez seemed to have an idea of what was going on as well, although he seemed wary. But fuck, thought Camp, you don’t fake something like this. Sam was still on the floor, muttering, and what they could hear made his stomach turn. He had clearly been through… something.  
He moved to let a medical professional by, a young man (Not the same idiot who works in the lab, thank god.) who’s name he had either forgotten or never bothered to learn.  
The sheer terror in Sam Winchester’s eyes as he scrambled backwards to get away from the doctor was terrifying in itself. Whatever experience had caused this, whatever person, from the sound of his dazed murmurs (“Please, get off. No more, please, no more. I can’t - not again.”), must have been painful beyond measure. And yet, no scars. It was puzzling, the man barely had a scrape on him. Sure it was clear that he was an active person, his hands were calloused and his body muscular, but no physical injury was apparent. It was all in the face. The way his brow was permanently furrowed, the dark circles under his eyes that never faded, the mouth, always pressed into a tight lipped frown or grimace, and the eyes. The eyes on this man were so full of pain and fear, that Camp wasn’t sure how he had mistaken it for murderous rage at first. Sure, that was there too, the intense anger that flared up sometimes was hard to miss, but whatever memories were causing this breakdown were there too.  
He didn’t think he’d ever feel sorry for anybody in his line of work, but it was truly difficult to watch Sam Winchester flinching away from the touch of the man in the white lab coat, clearly not aware of where he was.  
Leaving the brothers locked in solitary was supposed to break them, but not like this.

It wasn’t too long before Sam was back to his sullen, serious prisoner persona, refusing to engage with any of the men at his door, turning his back to them. That, Camp suspected, as he glimpsed Sam’s subtly shaking shoulders, was to hide his face. He backed away to allow the door to close, once again trapping the man in his cell.

On their way back upstairs, Sanchez walked beside him. He looked slightly shaken, but he was hiding it well. The two were silent for a moment.  
“Do you think that… well, what do you think about that?”, wondered Sanchez aloud.  
“I think that young man has been tortured. I’m not sure by who, but perhaps I was right about these two just being the tip of the iceberg. They could be being manipulated by someone.”, replied Camp clinically.  
Sanchez seemed skeptical. He always seemed skeptical about everything Camp said. “It could have been the other one. His brother.”  
“You think Dean Winchester tortured his brother?”  
A curt nod from Sanchez, who didn’t seem like that was what he thought at all. It seemed like he was reluctant to think about a threat any bigger than the two prisoners they held currently.  
Camp shook his head. “Where you even watching that? Sam Winchester would not have been able to look his brother in the eye if the man had done… whatever was done to him.”, he waved a hand around vaguely. Neither of them could deny the sense of sickened curiosity that had been piqued by Sam’s breakdown. What on earth could have done that to a man like him they hated to think about. “Plus, the pair seems so codependent I doubt one could function without the other, much less harm him. I’m not a psychologist but it doesn’t seem like a shared trauma either. I’m not sure what that means for us.”  
There was silence between them again as they considered his words. They stopped at the door to Camp’s office.  
“Would you like to come in?”, offered Camp. “We have a lot to talk about, I think.”  
Sanchez shook his head. “I have to file a report on this. And maybe we should consider getting the prisoners a professional psychological evaluation.”  
Camp sighed. “We’ll discuss it later.”.  
Sanchez turned and walked down the hallway, footsteps echoing on the cold concrete walls, already constructing a draft of the report in his head.  
Camp stepped into his office, letting the door shut behind him, lost in his own thoughts.

Underneath them, Dean Winchester scratched a tally mark into the wall with a screw, unaware that his brother was in worse shape than he was, had been for quite some time now. And Sam Winchester lay on his side, wrapped in a thin, scratchy blanket that couldn't quite provide enough warmth to smother the lingering feeling of those long, cold fingers ghosting over his skin, pulling at his hair. Gouging out his eyes. Gently caressing his profusely bleeding face.  
Sam Winchester closed his eyes to shut out a room that looked a bit to much like a cage to make him feel safe. To shut out a world that felt a bit too unfamiliar to make him feel comfortable. And eventually his breathing steadied as he drifted into sleep, a sleep filled with dreams of a Devil that acted much to friendly, and of friends and family that acted like he was the Devil.


End file.
